The green emerald weeds clung to the root of the boathouse like paint; well lathered on but quite easy to destroy. Everyone that passes the ancient boathouse would notice the wooden beams holding the slab roof cautiously and think that this boathouse will have its downfall. Every creak from the floorboards is a word. The bittersweet smell of the drowned wood skimms across the murky light water as the sky reflects the very opposite colour, a shade of azure.
The silent lullabye of the swaying boats on the surface to the water at night sways through every corner it could reach. As dawn breaks into night’s castle, the hollow empty tunnel sits alone in the deafening silence until it’s mouth, the boat, comes back. Sometimes, the rocking boat doesn’t return at all. It’s like waiting for a single raindrop in a drought. Now, the hollow tunnel would never talk again.
The hunched willow trees stretched their smooth fingers as their emerald studded hair fell to the murky crystalline pool. Every stone carved onto the walls of the boathouse gleamed in pride as they were pelted by the extreme storm. It was quite common for the passing people to ignore the building as it wasn’t very inviting and good-looking. It had a looming cold look pasted right on it. The inside is a selection of drab furniture piled up on a heap. Maybe the seasons change but this boathouse definitely doesn’t.
The green emerald weeds clung to the root of the boathouse like paint; well lathered on but quite easy to destroy. Everyone that passes the ancient boathouse would notice the wooden beams holding the slab roof cautiously and think that this boathouse will have its downfall. Every creak from the floorboards is a word. The bittersweet smell of the drowned wood skimms across the murky light water as the sky reflects the very opposite colour, a shade of azure.
The silent lullabye of the swaying boats on the surface to the water at night sways through every corner it could reach. As dawn breaks into night’s castle, the hollow empty tunnel sits alone in the deafening silence until it’s mouth, the boat, comes back. Sometimes, the rocking boat doesn’t return at all. It’s like waiting for a single raindrop in a drought. Now, the hollow tunnel would never talk again.
The hunched willow trees stretched their smooth fingers as their emerald studded hair fell to the murky crystalline pool. Every stone carved onto the walls of the boathouse gleamed in pride as they were pelted by the extreme storm. It was quite common for the passing people to ignore the building as it wasn’t very inviting and good-looking. It had a looming cold look pasted right on it. The inside is a selection of drab furniture piled up on a heap. Maybe the seasons change but this boathouse definitely doesn’t.
-Sisley
Hello Sisley,
I loved reading your description of the boathouse: it was gorgeous!
Very well done 😀
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Sisley feedback 10- 13+ boathouse description